


Lion-Hearted Girl

by subjunctive



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst and Porn, Cousin Incest, F/M, Future Fic, Manipulative Petyr, Manipulative Sansa, POV Sansa, Semi-Public Sex, Wedding Night, adopted half-sibling incest, kinkmeme fill, valar-morekinks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-21
Updated: 2016-08-21
Packaged: 2018-08-10 01:35:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7825090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/subjunctive/pseuds/subjunctive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>But in the end, the lords offered her the opposite of what she wanted: they respected her wish to go without a bedding, and every attempt would be made to secure her privacy, including hanging sheets from the bedposts, but they would have an audience on their wedding night nevertheless.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lion-Hearted Girl

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Florence + the Machine. Thanks to dansunedisco for looking this over and offering suggestions about the ending!
> 
> For a valar-morekinks prompt: "Someone (Littlefinger, Dany etc) believes that they plan on having a sham marriage and demands a public consummation of the marriage. Bonus point if they were right and Jon and Sansa did plan on their marriage being in name only."

Their marriage was too convenient.

Those were Petyr’s words, murmured to her in a low voice. Along with: _They fear it will not be a true marriage but a sham, like you and the Imp. Given your history, they wonder whether your union will produce heirs. Such distasteful rumors are spreading, Your Grace._

A burst of anger flared in her chest, and she wanted to ask, _And who started those rumors?_ But it wouldn’t do any good, so she schemed against him instead.

Of course, the rumors were true. The thought of bedding down with a man she still thought of as her brother made her feel sick. But she had no intention of letting anyone know that.

Wedding guests arrived a week before the event, and brought with them their wives and daughters, many of them married. It was easier than Sansa expected to feign embarrassment and ask nervous questions about the marriage bed when the unmarried ladies were absent.

“My marriage to Tyrion was never consummated,” she said, and lowered her eyes, “and Ramsay… Well, I am afraid I do not come to a true marriage well prepared in the arts of love.”

The wives cooed in sympathy and took pity on her, and a remarkable flow of information followed. Sansa listened to it all wide-eyed and asked stammering questions, and she knew by nightfall the wives would reassure their husbands of her intentions.

“Well played,” Petyr told her the next morning, when they were alone at breakfast. By his design, no doubt. “But you overestimate how much weight men give to their wives’ gossip.”

The idea of a royal consummation, a tradition long abandoned, was raised. Not by Petyr, of course, though she was sure it was his idea originally. He was laying a trap for them, and he expected her to succumb. Perhaps he imagined the wedding falling apart, her disgrace and humiliation in the aftermath, and himself swooping in to pick up the pieces so benevolently. The jaws of a trap snapping shut. The image burned Sansa, and she swore to herself to never let it become reality. Whatever it took.

Jon’s anger at the suggestion of a consummation with attendant lords in the chamber with them was a sight to behold, and Sansa had a time of it reining it back. She covered his clenched fist with her own hand and rubbed his knuckles soothingly.

“I understand your concerns, truly I do.” Sansa gave the lords a small smile. “But in truth… when we were children, we were not close. I am ashamed to admit it now, but I thought of Jon more as a nuisance than a brother. I didn’t want him to be my brother.” She looked up at Jon’s thunderous face and willed him to see the intentions behind her harsh words. “And after so many years apart, we are so different now, and come to find we are not brother and sister by blood. Surely a traditional bedding will allay everyone’s fears.”

A few of the lords were nodding. It was a calculation: in a moment of weakness Sansa had begged Jon not to have a bedding, and he’d agreed readily, and pressed the lords on her behalf. If she could have them see her making a sacrifice...

“Lord Snow insisted that there be no bedding,” pointed out Petyr in an eminently reasonable tone. Sansa wanted to strangle him.

Beside her Jon drew breath to speak, and Sansa squeezed his hand warningly. “My lords, I did not wish to speak of this, but he did so on my behalf.” She let a tremor run through her voice, and lowered her eyes to the table in feigned shame. “My experiences have not left me without certain… scars, you see. He wished only to help me avoid embarrassment.”

Her words hit their mark. Several lords blanched, and when she was sure no one was looking, she allowed her glance to slide over to Petyr. It had been one of his lessons to her, that the truth could be wielded as a weapon as well as a lie. He inclined his head to her in acknowledgement.

But in the end, the lords offered her the opposite of what she wanted: they respected her wish to go without a bedding, and every attempt would be made to secure her privacy, including hanging sheets from the bedposts, but they would have an audience on their wedding night nevertheless.

“One time, Jon,” she pleaded when they were in the privacy of her solar.

“It’s an insult.” He was pacing the length of the opposite wall, shoulders hunched.

“Yes. But you must admit--their fears were not unfounded.”

He looked at her with gray eyes as wild as a summer storm. “Tell me you have a plan, some working to let us out of this.”

She shook her head and nibbled on her thumbnail, a nervous habit from her early childhood that had returned with a vengeance the last few days. “We’ve been trapped well and good, Jon.”

He strode to her side at the window. “Then we’ll call it off.”

“ _No_ ,” she said with a vehemence that surprised even herself. “That’s exactly what Petyr wants. He thinks we won’t go through with it.”

Jon was quiet for a moment. “I’m not sure I can,” he admitted.

“You will have to,” she told him, her voice breaking. She took a deep breath. “Do whatever you need to do. Close your eyes and pretend I’m someone else. Or else find that Targaryen blood in you.”

He looked shocked and wounded at her words, but she hardened her heart to him.

In the few days left before the wedding, she explored avenues of preparation. At night, recalling the wives’ words about how they prepared themselves for their husbands or how their husbands prepared them, she slipped a hand beneath her smallclothes and touched herself until she was slick and panting, and when she pushed her fingers inside she forced herself to think of Jon, his dark hair, his body above hers. She could only hope he was doing the same in his chambers. Each night after the castle fell to slumber, she resolved to go to his bed. It was the first time that would be the most difficult, she knew. But her courage failed at her door every time.

Finally the day came, and it passed in a blur of cloaks and vows and feasting, until she found herself being prepared by her ladies. One brushed her hair until it shone and others helped her into her shift. Bawdy jokes were told and wine was drunk in truly prodigious quantities. Though Sansa herself only had two cups, it was enough to blunt the edge of her nerves, and she walked to the prepared chambers on footsteps that did not quake.

Sure enough, the bedposts were hung with white linens thin enough to see shadowy hints of what lay behind, but thick enough to obscure details. Doubtless these old buffoons considered themselves generous. Her ladies left her in the bed with words of encouragement, and she was alone for a time.

Jon was accompanied by a line of lords who filed around the edge of the bed in indistinct figures. Petyr was among them, she was sure. Thank the gods Lyanna Mormont did not appear to be.

He mounted the bed and knelt before her, his hands braced on his thighs and with such an uncertain look on his face that she knew she would have to take charge of the proceedings. She must. She took his face between her hands and drew him down to lay beside her for a kiss.

Even after several minutes of soft chaste kisses, Jon would not move his hand from its decorous position on her waist. It fell to Sansa to take hold of his wrist and guide his hand between her legs. She could feel his fear in the jackrabbit pace of his heart, so close to hers, but she could not show him the same for fear they would both lose heart. When he slipped a finger inside her body she gasped. He tried to jerk away in concern, but she clenched her thighs together and held him there. He surprised her; his finger curled forward, rubbing, searching, and when he came to a particular place her body curved like a bow.

She shed her shift, thinking it might be easier for him to focus on her body than her face, and pulled him over her to settle in the cradle of her hips after he copied the gesture. He bent his forehead to her neck as he stroked himself to full hardness between her legs, and finally pressed the tip of him against her.

Then he looked at her face, and whatever resolve he’d managed to build seemed to fail him. So Sansa pulled his face down to her neck and fit her hand to the small of his back, guiding him forward and in. There was no pain, only a sudden feeling of fullness and friction that was not entirely displeasing.

He moved slowly, gently, and above all guiltily. Even when she pulled her knees up and crossed her ankles around him, it wasn’t enough to urge him on. Her eyes snagged on Jon’s again and the dutiful pump of his hips stuttered. His brows were drawn together in worry and fear. For her. She had acquiesced to everything with grace, she thought in frustration. There was no reason for him to be so ...

The ladies’ words murmured to her again. He might prefer something other than acquiescence. Perhaps he would only be reluctant in the face of acquiescence.

It was easy enough to roll them over so that he was underneath her, her thighs bracketing his narrow hips. A gasp slipped out of him and his eyes went wide, a ring of white visible all around the gray. Her name was a muffled murmur, half-stammered on lips still red from kissing. Sansa placed his hands on her hips, encouraging him to guide her. The shadows beyond the bed hovered in judgment. Perverted old men, she thought spitefully. Let them have their show. She’d fuck her husband on the table of the Great Hall if need be.

There was a restless ache in her hips as she rocked against him, pulling a groan from his chest. The sound of it made her skin feel hot and too-tight, made her dizzy. “Jon,” she whispered, and that was just for him, just to hear him pant harder. Unpracticed though they were, her movements awakened something in him: he tugged at her now, fingers digging into her thighs. She ducked her head, leaning into him, and her hair cascaded over her shoulder in a bright banner, brushing his chest. Jon twisted a lock around his fingers before letting it spill over his hand. She caught a glimpse of his lip pulled between his teeth as he watched her.

“Jon,” she sighed, and this time it was louder, for the benefit of their audience. She hoped Petyr heard her calling for the husband she’d _chosen_ rather than him. She hoped he was gnashing his teeth, jealous, bitter, resentful.

Her voice hitched when she moved at a certain angle against him, something about it resounding in her, and he dipped a thumb between their bodies to circle at where she’d touched herself in nights before. A startled sound broke out from her throat. It was so different when someone else was doing the touching. Gods. She’d never known. How could she?

He licked his lips; Sansa followed the movement with hungry eyes. There was a question in his face, even as he wanted her, and she loved him for it. She nodded, biting her lip to hold back a whine. That dark gaze was fervent as it raked over her; she would never see it the same again, she knew. He moved his thumb over her in quick circles, each one tightening the coil in her belly until she thought she couldn’t bear it any longer, and then she was shuddering, crying out, her body lightning-struck and Jon groaning below her.

Before she understood what was happening, he had taken her in hand and rolled her to her back again. Her head hit the pillow with a moan. This time it was not duty that drove his thrusts: he took her roughly now, pressing her thigh back with one hand, and she found she liked it, opening her knees wider to take him deeper. Each snap of his hips brought with it a shadow, a spark, of the pleasure she’d felt moments before, and she rocked against him, chasing that feeling. Digging her curled toes into his thigh and her nails into his back, she whimpered his name.

The sound undid him. He said her name once in a low voice, meant only for her, and she felt the groan he suppressed vibrate in his chest against her. After he spilled, he buried his face in her chest. His weight was heavy on her, but she didn’t care; she cupped his neck, holding him there.

“Are those fuckers gone?” he mumbled against her sticky skin after a few minutes.

“Yes. I think we put that one to bed. So to speak.”

His breathy chuckle brushed over her, and the song in her beating blood felt like triumph. He raised his head, eyes hazy and soft as he looked at her, and that was new too, an intimacy that would not be easily forgotten. She thought she’d known him, reveled in her new closeness to him after their childish distance, but this was something else. She drew a thumb over the shell of his ear.

His knuckles rubbed against her cheek, affectionate and lazy with satisfaction. “I was so afraid,” he murmured. “But your courage carried us through.”

Sansa looked up, away, her eyes blinking with a sudden heat. “I only did what had to be done.”

Fingers circled her jaw, gently turning her to him again, and he chucked her under the chin, playful. “What do you think courage is, then?”

His earnest praise made her flush more than anything they’d done that night, and she pushed at his chest lightly so he would stop looking at her. With a sigh, Jon rolled away, and she yanked down one of the linens and tucked it around herself, holding it in place with one still-trembling arm under her breasts. The silence grew oppressive as whatever ease there had been between them faded.

“I can leave,” he said finally. His stiff words were aimed at the ceiling. “If you want. Or not. If you want.”

She didn’t know how to respond. Part of her, she could admit, would prefer him gone, to stew alone in her embarrassment and imagine all the bawdy jokes that would be told tomorrow at dinner and try to forget the invasive intimacy that had come between them. But she wasn’t sure she’d be able to forget the way his face screwed up when he came, or the unexpected sweetness of his instinctive affection afterward, or the sound of her name on his lips in the new tenor she had heard. Her cheeks grew hot at the memory.

“Stay, if it please you,” she blurted, to her own surprise, when she heard him rustling for his clothes. 

His weight on the bed shifted, and tentatively she felt him lie down again. She chanced a look at him out of the corner of her eye. He’d laced up his breeches but his chest was bare, and she thought about laying her cheek against it. Husbands and wives did that too, didn’t they? Her heart hammered against her ribs. Somehow this was far more difficult than the lovemaking. That, at least, was demanded by duty. This was something else, a fragile desire she could not interpret.

But he met her halfway. When she lay beside him stiffly, he slipped an arm beneath her head, and that made it easier to curl into him and let out a strained breath. His other hand squeezed her knee in reassurance, though whether its true target was her or himself she didn’t know. As the room gradually darkened, her eyes flicked up to study his profile in the firelight. She’d thought him dearly familiar to her already, but she was struck by how much of a stranger he was as well, how much she had not known and still did not, what else she might be surprised by. _One time,_ she’d said to him. But one time hardly guaranteed an heir, and that had been a cause for concern among their skeptics as well. Perhaps, she thought as her fingertips ran through the hair on his chest, she ought to put that rumor to bed too.


End file.
